


Clavicle

by Emphysematous



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Blood, Blood licking, Consensual Thramsay, Cuddles, Cuddling, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, drunken fucking, sadofluff, seriously - it's saved as 'fluff' on my laptop, so much blood, this was supposed to be fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2017-04-26
Packaged: 2018-10-24 02:26:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10732239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emphysematous/pseuds/Emphysematous
Summary: Theon is in the mood for a brutal, fast fuck, but when Ramsay comes up from the banquet hall almost too drunk to stand, he knows he's not going to get what he wanted. He didn't quite expect it to go like THIS though...Set in LelithSugar's Consensual!Thramsay canon divergence (R & T are perverts in love with a fully consensual BDSM relationship)





	Clavicle

**Author's Note:**

> So when I started this I fully intended to do some really romantic, soft, fluffly, snugglefucking. But it seems my writing fairy had other ideas. Oops. 
> 
>  
> 
> I highly recommend reading more of the Bloodied Up collection to get an idea of their dynamic, but essentially it's spun off from the canon at the start of Season Three of the show, with Theon captured at the Dreadfort. But in this version, they’re in a happy, consensual (albeit very twisted, BDSM-themed) relationship, with the torture and abuse mostly used as a cover-up to maintain their public personas and allow them to live out their perverted fantasies to their hearts’ content. Theon is (mostly) whole, with the whole cutting-bits-off thing simply the result of rumour gone wild. He does have a lot of very interesting scars, though...

"Theeeee..." Ramsay paws at his bedroom door, fumbling with the latch. Theon scrambles - shirtless and barefoot - to open it before he calls any louder. It felt like he'd been waiting for hours and as usual, the anticipation had his blood throbbing through his body. He adjusts his trousers as he unlocks the door, swinging it open to find Ramsay leaning heavily on the doorframe. His face breaks into a lopsided grin as Theon scurries past, hastily slamming and bolting the outer door to his rooms. Ramsay hiccups.

"You're drunk," Theon grins, wrapping one of Ramsay's arms over his shoulders and half-walking, half-dragging him to his bed. Drunk Ramsay tends to mean a good time for them both; well, if you count heavy handedness and a hard fuck as a good time - which Theon absolutely did.

"Yep!" Ramsay giggles, "And _you're_ pretty!" He kisses Theon sloppily on the side of the face, just barely missing his eye. Theon jerks his head away to avoid being headbutted. Ramsay frowns and pouts. "Theeee! Kisses?"

"Seriously?" Theon just about manages not to roll his eyes as he presents his face for Ramsay to kiss, which he does so with enthusiasm and clumsiness. Ramsay's hands grasp at him, one sliding round his shoulders to hold him close, the other trailing down his body, struggling at the junction of tunic and breeches to get to bare skin. Theon opens his mouth for Ramsay's tongue, tasting wine and brandy and a hint of ginger and salt. His cock twitches as his mouth is searched with more force than tenderness - Ramsay taking what he wants always heats him up.

"Mmmphlf!" Ramsay attempts to speak without breaking the kiss - and fails. He frowns and pulls himself away with apparent difficulty. "M'gonna fuck you," he breathes into Theon's ear in a cloud of alcohol and spice - the knee-trembling effect ruined somewhat by his simultaneous loss of balance and the resulting wild grab at Theon's arms for support. He wobbles clumsily and slides down Theon's body into a graceless half-kneel, half-squat on the floor, missing landing on his bed by inches.

Theon looks down at him, eyebrow raised. "Are you?" He snorts as Ramsay gazes confusedly around him, trying to work out why all the angles had changed. He hiccups again, resting his head for a moment against Theon's thigh and heaving a big sigh. "Looks like you're just fucked, Ram," Theon teases, though his heart sinks a little; in this state it seems likely that the room would be echoing only to Ramsay's snores tonight.

Ramsay slowly tilts his head to look up at him, eyes drifting in and out of focus. Theon meets his unsteady gaze with barely-suppressed laughter and Ramsay pouts at him. "M'fine, Thee!" he complains, "stoppit." His hands go to Theon's breeches and start tugging at the laces. "Come ooooout!" he calls, presumably to Theon's cock, which has little interest in this kind of summons. Theon considers his options. Perhaps Ramsay would be satisfied with his mouth tonight - that'd probably be quick and easy enough to get him off to sleep with minimal fuss.

Theon grabs at Ramsay's hands and bats them away before he tightens the knots beyond all hope; he certainly doesn't want Ramsay to be wielding a knife around that area while he's like this. He wriggles out of his trousers, kicking them to the floor. Ramsay hugs his thigh, nuzzling at his crotch, nudging with his nose like a puppy. "Mmmmn, Thee, y’taste good. M'gonna make y'come f'me."

"Really." Theon tries to hide his skepticism as Ramsay lolls back against the bedframe, limbs loose. It was far more likely that he’d talk about how good it was going to be for Theon all the way through whatever it was he wanted to get himself off, then spill over Theon’s backside and fall asleep before making any move to reciprocate. The worst part of it was just how much Theon got off on being misused this way. He’d spent the early hours of many a night stroking his own cock to the sound of Ramsay’s snores, obsessing over how Ramsay certainly wouldn’t care in the slightest that he’d been left wanting - and would probably laugh at him for even suggesting it was an issue. It didn’t stop Ram babbling on about how he was going to perform all kinds of exotic acts for Theon’s pleasure - all the way up until he came and instantly lost interest. Theon offers a hand and hoists Ramsay up and onto the bed. Well, with any luck, maybe Ramsay would suck his cock before he fell asleep - that was probably about the best he was going to get tonight with him in this state.

"Yes," Ramsay asserts with equal parts certainty and saliva. He sits up and starts to pull at his clothes, yanking them off, getting himself tangled. “Jussyou wait n’see.”

"Oh gods, Ram, come here..." Theon sighs, "look, just put your arm... no, the _other_ way. There!" He unwraps Ramsay from his shirt and is pulled into a bearhug, Ramsay mouthing at his neck with just a hint of teeth and pawing at his back, leaving scratches with his nails. "...fuck, Ram..." Theon melts into his rough touch. This was what he wanted; assertiveness and sex and just a hint of violence. Perhaps he'd get his fuck after all.

"M'gonna have you." Ramsay grasps at Theon's arse, his fingers digging in savagely. "Gonna spread y'wide an' have y'screamin' f'me." He rolls his hips, pressing his cock against Theon’s thigh.

"Ram," Theon whispers, "have me." He clings to Ramsay, arms over his shoulders, legs wrapped around his hips. "..oof!" Ramsay had lifted him up, heaving himself to his feet, wobbling precariously. Theon reaches out to the wall to steady them both and Ramsay sucks at his collarbone, bringing blood to flush his skin. He stumbles round in a half circle and tosses Theon facedown onto the bed. Theon yelps with surprise, glancing back over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of Ramsay fumbling to get his breeches down enough to wrestle his cock out, a determined look on his face that makes his stomach flip.

Theon crawls over the bed to retrieve a bottle of oil from the chest of drawers on the other side and pours some into his hand, reaching back to slick himself up. He squeals when Ramsay grabs him by an ankle and yanks him bodily back across, oil spattering over the bedding. Ramsay clambers on top of Theon, straddling him, one arm wrapping around his neck to pull him close. Theon drags in a breath and leans into Ramsay's hold, loving the terrible tension on his windpipe. His hand is shoved away and Ramsay's fingers smear up the cleft of his arse, one pushing impatiently into him. Theon lets out a small grunt and rocks back, trying to make the most of however much preamble Ramsay's going to be bothered to give.

A flash of perfect pressure that makes him gasp and then the fingers are gone and Ramsay is jostling his legs apart, spreading his arse cheeks and... losing his balance, collapsing onto him.

His head rests on the back of Theon's shoulder and he breathes out a curse. Theon wriggles underneath him and Ramsay heaves himself back up onto all fours, relinquishing his hold on Theon for more stability. Theon arches his back, trying to angle his backside better. He feels the heat of Ramsay's cock drag up the back of his thigh and jab at him and... the weight of him landing heavily on his back, as his knee falls off the edge of the bed.

They both huff in frustration.

"Do you want me to just suck you, Ram?" Theon asks, masking his irritation as well as he can. _I just wanted to get fucked, was it so much to ask?_ Some quick head and they can sleep and do it properly in the morning. "You want my mouth?" He flutters his eyelashes and licks his lips, playing the innocent slut.

Ramsay shakes his head and growls, "Nup. I wanna be… wanna be _insiiiiide_ …” He pushes himself to his feet and hauls Theon closer, so that only his top half is on the bed. He staggers closer and thrusts enthusiastically, unfortunately only managing to slide his cock between Theon's buttocks. Impatient, Theon raises a knee onto the bed for more height, but this only causes Ramsay's next attempts to poke him savagely and repeatedly in the balls.

"Fuck, Ram!" Theon complains, rolling out from under him and massaging the assaulted area. "You need some fucking target practice."

"S'not my fault your arse is all slupper- slup- slippery." Ramsay grumbles, holding onto the bedpost.

Theon gets up and shoves the bedding aside. "Shut up and sit down."

Ramsay shakes his head. "Nuh-uh. I want’ya.." He grabs his cock and thrusts his hips for illustration.

"Yes, yes, you'll still have me," Theon agrees quickly; it doesn't do to get Ramsay arguing when he's like this, he'll labour a point until daybreak once he gets going. He wants a fuck and the longer it takes to give him one the more impatient and impossible he'd going to get. Theon points at the bed, adds authority to his voice, bringing back his highborn tone. "Sit." Ramsay sits.

"But I wanna fuck youuuu..." he whines, cock still in hand.

Theon rolls his eyes and reaches for the bottle of oil again. "I know, you mentioned it." He applies oil to Ramsay's prick with one hand, adds more to himself with the other, then pushes Ramsay back and climbs on top of him. "Shush now."

He bats Ramsay's hands away and redirects them to holding onto his thighs where they can cause minimal interference. Raising his hips, he shuffles about for a moment, positioning himself, and then reaches underneath to guide Ramsay's cock inside, lowering himself down onto it as promptly as he can manage before Ramsay inevitably starts to rut. Ramsay sighs through clenched teeth, his prick finally getting the wetness and the grip and the _heat_ that he'd been wanting. There's some adjusting and shifting of weight and then Ramsay grips Theon’s hips so hard he’ll surely have fresh bruises tomorrow and thrusts erratically up into him, his eyes squeezed shut, blocking out everything but the warm body wrapped around his cock.

Theon groans and rocks his pelvis, trying to find the angle that feels best. He ends up leaning back with his hands on his own ankles for support, which while it feels good, leaves him frustratingly unable to touch himself. He resigns himself to a solo climax after Ramsay's done and turns his mind to making the most out of the cock that's jerking mechanically into him.

They settle into a rough rhythm, Theon grinding his arse down and Ramsay pushing back up into him. Normally Ramsay would be taunting Theon about his arched back pose, for displaying himself so whorishly, for loving being fucked like this - but he's biting his lip, brows drawn low in concentration and Theon certainly isn't desperate enough to bring the subject up. Yet.

In fact, now that the anticipation is over and it's actually happening, his interest is waning. It's not that he doesn't enjoy being on top and in control sometimes, it's just that he isn't really in the mood to be the instigator right _now_. All evening he'd been imagining being gripped in an armlock and forced to bend over whichever piece of furniture was nearest while Ramsay took whatever pleasure from his body that he wanted. He was in a frame of mind to be taken without warning, used roughly and discarded when done with and although Ram isn't making any particular effort to make this good for him, he's not as careless with Theon's comfort as he usually is when drunk.

His mind drifts to other drunken fucks. Being grabbed by the hair, yanked to his knees and his mouth stuffed with cock until he choked and his tears triggered Ramsay to spill right into his throat, then wipe his cock dry on Theon's face, drop him to the floor and step over him to clamber into bed and fall asleep within minutes, totally oblivious - or uncaring - about Theon still trying to cough up the seed he'd inhaled. Or being parked in the kennels, left to prepare himself and wait, wait, wait interminable hours for Ramsay to extract himself from the revelries in the great hall and come to relieve his hard prick into Theon's arse, abandoning him just as quickly in favour of the banquets and entertainments inside. Or being woken up by Ramsay's fingers greasing his arsehole moments before pushing himself in, clutching Theon's body closer to him as if he was a rag doll, a slut, a whore. Just a convenient body to be fucked, just an orifice, just an _object_...

It's no good, even sliding into his fantasies, it's going nowhere for him while they're like this, Theon just holding his position on top and Ramsay thrusting repetitively and silently into him, eyes still closed, presumably chasing his own fantasy. All the taproom jokes and comments about stale, married sex with a lifeless wife of thirty years come back to him and his gut clenches in horror at the possibility that he and Ramsay might actually be heading down that pathway. Were they growing complacent? Boring? He'd imagined a lot of possible outcomes when he'd entered into this... _whatever-it-was_ with Ramsay (even his inner voice shied away from calling it a 'relationship'), but growing comfortable and familiar with each other to the point of tedium had not been one of them.

Stifling a yawn, Theon shifts his weight and straightens up a little, knees aching from holding himself in one position for so long. He half-hopes that Ramsay will push him or order him back to where he was, regardless of stiff muscles, but he seems to pay no attention, just carries on thrusting away. He seems nowhere near finishing for the time being. To be honest, Theon's fairly impressed he's staying hard at all through the numbness of all that alcohol, but this anticipated quick hard fuck before sleep is stretching into a disappointingly banal and drawn-out affair. Despite the oil, Theon can feel the beginnings of hot sharp irritation as Ramsay's cock rubs against his flesh over and over and over and over.

For a while, he tries to focus on that discomfort and use it to spark some kind of endurance fucking scenario in his imagination - he tries one of his standard fallbacks: a whole damn platoon of anonymous, helmeted guardsmen, lining up to take their turn with the Dreadfort slut in a queue that stretches out the door and beyond, each utterly disinterested in who it is they're about to fuck, only after somewhere hot and wet to stick their pricks. But the positions are all wrong and he can't imagine a scenario in which he'd be balancing on top of the men in said endless line and the fantasy slips from his grasp leaving him physically and emotionally limp. He shifts again, and starts to wonder whether he could reach the oil bottle, and if he could get hold of it, how he could apply it to the intended area.

His thoughts are sharply interrupted when Ramsay growls loudly and slaps Theon hard at the top of his right thigh, half sitting up. "Seven fresh-fucked maidens, Thee! Can'tcha put s'meffort in or s'mthin'? You're as lifeless as a corpse!"

Affronted, Theon pushes himself forward and drops his weight heavily onto Ramsay's collarbones, pinning him to the bed. "Maybe if you weren't such a boring fuck, I'd be more enthused," he snarls, with a grin to show that he's joking - mostly. "Or maybe if you hadn't pickled yourself before coming up tonight, you'd be a bit more responsive." He pokes Ramsay in the sternum - usually a sensitive place - but earns no particular reaction beyond a glare for his audacity.

" _I'm_ not responsivive?" Ramsay flaps a hand at Theon's cock, which had lost interest in proceedings quite a while back. "Less kraken, more limp squid! If th'whores o'the north could see y'now, Greyjoy!"

Theon deals the offending hand a stinging slap and grabs Ramsay's wrists in a hold that he'd never have been able to maintain if Ramsay had been sober. "How is my cock's fault that your cock's not doing it's fucking job?" he spits, his annoyance becoming less feigned. "If I wanted to fuck a sack of potatoes I'd go visit your father's wife!"

"You climbered n'me!" Ramsay flails his arms and legs, starfishing on the bed to illustrate how incapacitated he had been rendered by having Theon sit astride him.

Almost speechless, Theon just stares down at him, mouth agape. "Really?" he manages, at last, "that's your excuse?"

"We-what d'ya expect?" Ramsay slurs angrily at him. "Th's s'not 'zactly caterering to my tastes, issit? S'not m'fault."

"Stop whining and do something different, you twat!" Theon laughs but there's a hysterical edge to it that betrays his frustration.

Ramsay's lip twitches and then he has Theon by the throat in a grip that's mostly holding jaw but crucially, not entirely avoiding the pressure on his carotids. His thumbnail digs into Theon's skin with an uncomfortable sharpness entirely separate from the firmness of the grab. Theon can feel the bloodflow to his head slowing, just the very edges of the closing in of sight that signals that passing out could soon happen. His heart races and he gasps a breath in readiness. Blood floods southwards, and his cock aches as it hardens again. Ramsay sneers at him, lip curled to bare teeth. "Y'want different? How's  _this_?"

For a split second, Theon wonders where the knife came from - Ramsay is naked and they're in bed - before the pointlessness of that question catches up with him. This is the Bolton Bastard, in his own rooms, in the gods-damned Dreadfort. They were never more than about an arm's length away from a stashed knife in the whole damn room.

Even drunk, Ramsay holds the blade steady. "Is this. _Different._ Enough?" he asks, with exaggeratedly perfect enunciation, jabbing Theon in the pectoral muscle with the tip of the blade. Just a tiny nick, but enough to bring a bead of bright blood to the surface along with the tiny shooting jet of sharp pain.

Theon is silent, holding still, just watching the blade. His chest heaves even though Ramsay is squeezing his neck for control, not to choke him. The world closes in, everything fading out until it's just them, here, now, with Ramsay's cock in him and his hand around his neck and his blade held against his skin and their breath coming in short, deep pants as they both watch that small drop of blood roll down Theon's chest, leaving its glistening wake in stark red contrast to the pale scarred skin beneath it. He can feel his heart pounding in his chest, echoed in the whooshing in his ears, the throbbing of his cock - and Ramsay's cock too, for that matter, twitching inside him.

Theon looks down at himself, at his attentive prick, and Ramsay follows his gaze, lips curving into a smirk that makes Theon flush with shame and excitement and deep, frantic need. _I'm so fucking predictable_. Their eyes meet and Theon almost groans out loud at the way Ramsay is looking at him with his tongue licking at his teeth and pupils so wide his eyes look black - a predator sizing up prey. Theon wants to be devoured.

Deliberately, Ramsay drops his glance to the knife still held to Theon's chest and then looks back up at him, one eyebrow raised. The question is clear. He takes a breath, biting his lip. Cutting is hard. It's sharp, hot, inescapable surface pain that Theon always finds difficult, no matter how much he wants to hurt. His body wants to be bruised, to be pinned down and to feel pressure and weight and solidness against him. Deep, heavy, numbing pain. But Ramsay is panting and practically liucking his lips at the sight of the one drop of blood on his chest and and right now Theon needs something, _anything_ , that'll move this endless fuck forward so that he can come and he knows that it'll feel so good once it's over...

With a slow rock of his hips to grind himself further onto Ramsay's cock, Theon closes his eyes and nods; one small jerk of his chin. He hears Ramsay's soft inhale, feels the thrum of excitement through his body and then the _slice_. Long, shallow and searingly painful, it momentarily blots out all his other senses. From under his left collarbone to a handspan under his right nipple, the blade angled to dissect slightly under the skin - Ramsay knows exactly how to cut to cause the most bleeding with the least actual injury. It also hurts so much more than a straight cut: halfway to being flayed. Apt, really.

Theon hisses, head still turned away so he can't see. But he can still _feel_ and now after the initial flash he's aware, so intensely aware, of Ramsay's cock rocking raggedly and urgently into him, of his hand pressed against Theon's chest, slipping against the wound, of his panting breath. He feels hot, sharp, fresh, alive. Every nerve is singing. He can feel the weave of the sheets, the movement of his hair at the roots, smell the iron of his blood.

Curious, he risks a quick look. He'd expected a curtain of red but the blood is pouring down his chest in separate dark rivulets and there's a messy smear in the centre where Ramsay pressed his hand to feel it.  He glances up at Ramsay who is staring at him in fascinated, lustful, adoration; caught in the act of licking the blood from his fingers. He grins toothily at Theon and jerks his hips to push his cock harder up into him, grunting in satisfaction when it makes Theon gasp. He presses his hand to Theon's bleeding chest again, rubbing upwards to lift the flap of skin he'd cut open. Theon whines, writhing away from the pain and thrusting himself down harder on Ramsay's cock at the same time. _How can it feel so good? I’m so twisted up..._

Ramsay raises his knife again and Theon screws his eyes shut and quickly turns his face away again. He only has a moment before Ramsay’s second slice: a perfect mirror image of the first cut, creating a wide, flattened X across his chest. A cross to match the Bolton’s sigil. _Claimed and labelled again._ Theon drank in the deliciousness of Ramsay’s outright ownership of him. For just a moment, he could have sworn that the cross Ramsay carved into his arm had throbbed. More blood drips down, Theon can feel it, oddly cool, rolling down his skin. The heat of the cuts still blazes across his mind and he leans his thoughts into it, examining just how much it hurts, just how it feels. The more he concentrates on it, the more bearable it becomes. _Yes, it hurts, but it hurts this much and no more. It's only pain. It's only pain._

Ramsay groans out loud and sits up, tilting Theon back and further onto his cock and then his mouth is against Theon's breastbone, tongue pressing against the intersection of the cross, hands lifting to touch the cuts, spreading the blood into sticky, dirty stains. His mouth is filthy with blood. A drip has trailed down his chin and his left cheek is covered almost to his ear. His eyes are bright, nostrils flaring as he openly sniffs at the slices, his tongue flashing out to trail along the open edge. He's rocking, thrusting, pulling Theon's shoulders down to press him further onto his prick, hands grasping at Theon's back, his hair, his neck; trying to possess every inch of him. Theon clings to him, giving himself to him, letting him have all of him: his skin, his arse, his blood. Everything. _Everything._ He can feel Ramsay losing rhythm, becoming more frantic by the moment.

He wraps his arms around Theon and hugs him close, pressing his chest against Theon's cuts and making a gory imprint on his own skin. Blood is dripping down Theon's stomach and onto Ramsay's thighs, making his thrusts slap wetly in the silence of their room. Ramsay presses the side of his hand just under the centre of the cross, collecting a pool of blood in his palm and then grabs Theon's cock with it, spattering them both. Theon groans at the touch - somehow both slick and sticky and so incredibly wrong - and the noise is echoed by Ramsay who is rapidly losing control as he stares, rapt, at the bloodied mess of Theon's prick in his hands. He strokes quickly but in moments the blood has congealed into gripping friction, gluing his grip to Theon's skin.

Fascinated, Ramsay slowly opens his fingers, peeling them away from Theon's cock and leaving pale prints surrounded by sticky dark gore. Strings of clots trail between them and then Ramsay's mouth opens and he _squeaks_ and he's coming, clutching onto Theon's chest and ribs and coming and coming into him like it's the last time he'll ever be able to.

Theon only has a moment to register the heat filling him before Ramsay is kissing him with bloodied lips and rolling them over, pulling out of Theon's body and dumping him onto his back and then crawling down the bed to suck at his blood-coated cock with a fervour that he hadn't shown in months. Theon cries out, taken by surprise. He winds a hand into Ramsay's hair and gently pulls him slightly to the left, into a position where he's less likely to catch teeth. Ramsay's head bobs and he's toying with Theon's hole with two fingers, edging them into him and twisting to stroke upwards just where he knows it'll make Theon squirm.

Caught in the dual attack of Ramsay's mouth on his cock and his fingers pressing against the perfect place inside him, Theon barely lasts two minutes before he's clutching at Ramsay's head, and spilling into his mouth with a strangled cry. Ramsay wrestles himself free and Theon arches his back, exposing his neck for Ram to spit it all out over him but instead Ramsay shifts his position on the bed and abruptly lifts Theon's  right leg up into the air so that he can get access to mouthe greedily at his arsehole, tonguing at his own seed spilling out from Theon's body. Theon writhes, the room filling with obscene sucking and slurping noises. Ramsay holds him tightly, keeping him in place and open until Theon's limbs go loose and he flops heavily against the bed, too sated to resist any more.

Licking his lips, Ramsay worms back up the bed to lie next to him, pulling him into a sloppy open-mouthed kiss. Theon can taste seed and blood and sweat and he pushes his tongue into Ramsay's mouth, desperate to taste more of himself, of Ramsay, of _them_.

“Y’so perfect, so perfect...” Ramsay breathes into his mouth in a cloud of wine and iron and ginger. “My squidling. Mine.” He shuffles down a little and mouths at the shallow, clotting wound across Theon’s chest, then licking along the top of his collarbones and up his neck. “Y’did so well, lovely. So well.”

Theon actually blushes. He’d never become accustomed to Ramsay praising him, particularly for something that he hadn’t really accomplished, like being sliced open and arsefucked. Yes, he’d been present, but in a very passive role. Struggling to find anything to say, he simply kisses the top of Ramsay’s head and flops back into the bedding, sprawled out. Blissed out. _It turned out better than expected._

They lie tangled together for a few blissful minutes before Ramsay rolls off him and pads unsteadily and wordlessly out into his antechamber, only meandering slightly off course on the way. He returns with his ewer of washing water, a  big wad of clean cloth and his black fix-it box. He hands them to Theon and wanders off again, coming back with a pitcher of wine and the jewelled goblet they’d shared in bed ever since Theon’s first night in the Dreadfort. He sits on the bed and pours, not spilling a drop.

“ _More_ wine, Ram?” Theon queries, slightly nervously. “Are you sure?”

“S’for you.” Ramsay sets the pitcher down and takes out a bag of sugar from the black box, choosing a large lump of it and crumbling it into the wine between his palms. “Drink.” He licks his palms clean of sugar and blood while Theon swallows the wine down in steady gulps. He can feel the beginnings of the shakiness that can follow some of their harder games and the sweetness is welcome.

Ramsay watches him drink with an intense satisfaction that would have had Theon suspicious that it was poisoned if he hadn’t spent the last few years getting used to those predatory grins. He raises the goblet in salute. “If you’re trying to get me as drunk as you are, you might have a long wait,” he grins, taking another deep sip.

Ramsay shakes his head. “Nuh, jus’ f’you.” With hands a great deal steadier than they had any right to be, Ramsay dips cloth in water and starts to clean Theon’s chest, wiping gently downwards from collarbones to lower ribs, taking care not to lift open the cuts again. Theon twitches a little - the pain isn’t nearly as bearable post-fuck. Ramsay stops for a moment and refills the goblet, dumping more sugar into it. “Drink.”

Theon drinks.

The blood dissolves slowly, going from shiny dark brown to sticky maroon which slides on top of fresher clots beneath until they’re wiped away, leaving only smears of orange rust. Ramsay uses cloth after cloth until the wounds are clean, refreshing Theon’s sweetened wine twice more during the process and working quietly and methodically. They’ve done this many a time.

Theon turns away the last refill and lies back while Ramsay goes over every inch of his bloodstained skin with meticulous care, his lips curved into that small sly smile the whole time. Theon strongly suspects he’s fantasising about what it would be like to flay him with the same scrupulous thoroughness. As long as he’s smiling in fantasy, and not frowning in thoughtfulness, Theon doesn’t worry.

There’s sudden searing, burning pain that interrupts his peaceful musing. “Fucking _shit_ me, you cunt!” Theon cries out, scrabbling himself back up to sitting, all semblance of coherence lost in the fog of the unexpected assault. “What the fuck was that?”

Ramsay gives him a bemused smirk and holds up a bottle of brandy. “Purifyfying you.”

“You could have bloody warned me!” Theon glares at him, letting Ramsay gently lay him back down. “And it’ll take a lot more than that to make _me_ pure…” he mumbles under his breath while Ramsay wipes over the cuts with the alcohol, as efficiently as any maester. He folds fabric into pads for extra pressure and winds long strips of cloth around Theon’s body, then dresses him in a snug shirt to hold it all in place.

It was the shirt that did it. Just as they were settling into bed with Ramsay curled up behind Theon, wrapping his body around him and holding him close, one hand sliding under the hem of the shirt to feel his bare skin and snuffling into the nape of his neck to sniff at his hair. That gentle probing at the shirt, trying to get under fabric that wasn’t usually there… Theon’s eyes open wide in the gloom of their room.

“You had this whole thing planned!”

“Hmmn?” Ramsay pulls him closer, lipping at his neck.

“This whole cutting thing, you planned it!” Theon squirms to roll over and face him.

“Did I?” Ramsay’s voice is suspiciously innocent.

Theon huffs at him. “You come in too pissed to open your own door, but you can somehow carve a perfectly symmetrical, straight-line cross into me?”

“I’m a fucking Bolton, squidling.” Ramsay coos at him, “the day I can’t cut simple X is the day I’m dead.” He’s lost his drunken slurring. Theon glares at him. Ramsay traces the cuts through the dressings. “It’s so _very_ pretty, isn’t it?” he gives Theon a happy smile. “Your skin is so perfect for it.”

“Ram, you don’t have to trick me into things.” Theon protests, “just tell me what you want. When have I ever said no?”

“When I wanted to come over your feet.” Ramsay retorts with a grin.

Theon rolls his eyes. “Yeah, apart from that. No feet. You don’t even _like_ feet!”

Ramsay laughs. “That just makes it more appealing!”

“ _No feet_ , Ram!”

“Yes, yes, I know…” He pulls Theon in and kisses him. “But you liked it, didn’t you? I made you feel good?” His hands slide over Theon’s body, touching every part of him, squeezing at his arse. He wraps his leg over Theon’s thighs, enveloping him.

“I loved it. I always do.” Theon agrees, then tries his best to maintain his indignance. “But what the fuck was all that with the abysmal failure to get it in me at the beginning?”

Ramsay grins. “I wanted you to _want_ it.” He nips lightly at Theon’s collarbone through the shirt and the bandages, sucks at the curve of his jaw.

“Please never fuck me as badly as that ever again.”

“I promise.”

  
  
  
  



End file.
